Most words get casually tossed into the air,
gently carried away by their impermanence,
lack of true depth or meaning.
This is the majority of conversation.

Some words stumble out unwillingly,
forced out over tongue and through teeth.
These words are harder to coerce into being,
yet too heavy to be kept inside.  

And then there are words flung out innocently,
born of a benevolent background
or intending no substantial meaning at all.
But the implied connotation is hurtful nonetheless.

Or the words haphazardly spit out
in a weakened moment of anger,
and the regret runs deeper than the thought
put behind the decision to hurl them around

These are the words that settle into minds,
the ones that flop out and lie there,
panting from the exertion of the pain caused,  
intentional or not.

Be wary of the words you bring into existence.

I wish I knew just how to confess
the sickness happening in my head,
but I have no clue how to start
because I honestly have no idea
how this whole mess began.

Each bite I take is precious,
a tasty present I allow myself
only once I've reached a state
of pure unavoidable hunger.
And each bite is torture,
for I know each one will come back
to haunt me, taunt me.

I walk into the bathroom,
look down at the toilet,
brush my hair off to the side,
and begin my clandestine routine.
I despise myself for this practice,
but it is nothing compared to
the repugnance I feel when
looking at myself in a mirror.
The few minutes of disgust
are worthless in relation to
the elation I feel when I see
those calories expelled from my body,
unable to be absorbed into my system,
added onto me as even more fat.

It's an up and down mind battle.
I hate myself for each action I take,
but am unable to help it. I try not to
eat, but sometimes I just get so
**** hungry I cave to my cravings,
regretting each torturous morsel
as it passes between my lips.
A trip to the bathroom, then,
and it'll all be better soon I guess.
But I'm hungry again much too soon
and the terrible circle begins anew.

I don't know how to ask for help,
am far too ashamed to admit
these disgustingly illicit deeds.
And for now I get to see
the numbers on the scale decrease.
Getting help would halt
the progress I've worked so hard for.

It's 3:30 in the morning
and this always happens
on the nights we stay apart.
I'm suddenly up in the middle of it,
wide awake for no reason at all,
sleep eluding me until
it's almost time to rise anyway.
I can only guess that my body
is subconsciously yearning
for the trace of yours against it,
and my mind would rather have me
not sleep at all
than to peacefully slumber
away the darkness
without your presence.
It's 3:30 in the morning
and I need to get back to sleep,
so I roll over and try to pretend
I have your limbs wrapped around me
in your usual manner,
the best kind of full body embrace.
My imagination is no substitute
for the warmth of you.  
It's 3:30 in the morning
and I lie awake, restless,
unable to stop thinking of you.

I never cared much
   for seeing myself
   until I saw my face reflected
   in the love within your eyes.
And I was never the biggest fan
   of my name
   until I found out how it tasted
   on your tongue.

Some days
in the middle of getting ready
I'll have to stop and
go lie down for a few,
utterly exhausted
by the mere act of getting up.
These are the days
I know, I know,
****.
I'm depressed.

I have no strength
to face the day.
I want to call into work,
sorry, I just can't.
Go back to my bed,
let my blanket swallow me up.
Make a black hole of myself,
cease existing,
if only for a day,
just to recover myself again.

Standing in the middle
of an Old Navy,
waiting on my boo
to finish trying on clothes.
I always feel so out of place
shopping for cute things,
like I'm just not girly enough.
I'd rather go play around
in the toy aisle.
I never was one for matching
prints and colors
and figuring out make-up patterns.
Maybe one day I'll grow up,
figure this stuff out,
but god, I hope not.

Standing in a room of hundreds,
a cacophony of voices rising
to form a moving mass
of noise and confusion.
You look down at me and smile,
swing your arm up to
its familiar position on my shoulder.
I encircle my arms
around your waist,
their rightful place,
and wrap my brain
with nothing but thoughts of you.
And inside my mind,
a quiet peacefulness settles.

**** I'm so scared
and I'm so in love with you
but I don't have a **** clue
how I'm supposed to trust
that what we have is the thing
gushed about in movies,
and swooned over in novels.
How the hell does anyone decide
that they know with all certainty
and perfect clarity
that that one person
is their one person,
the one meant to be?
I notice little things that irk me,
rub my nerves until they fray
and I wonder, will those
be the things that bring about
the death of us?
Or am I overreacting, overanalyzing
every single moment that passes
because I'm just so ******* scared
of what the future could possibly be.
Because ****, am I scared  
But ****, am I in love with you.
And the biggest torture
of our relationship is,
I don't know which
of those parts of me will win.
Because no matter how much
I am in love with you,
****, am I scared.

There's a beast inside my head
throwing his fists against my brain
and with every breath I take
in, out,
I feel as if I'm riding upon
the crest of a wave
up, down,
a terrible journey
I never intended to take.

But enveloped within
your arms so tightly,
your chin resting on my head
oh so lightly,
I find myself within a cocoon
of safety, comfort.

You leave far too soon,
and I wish I could keep you
here with me at all times.
But even after you've gone
I dream of you,
and when I wake
you're the first thought
that flutters into my mind.
And I am calmed.

"Don't go," I beg yet again.
"Do you want me to stay?" you ask, and I'm really quite confused as to how you aren't seeing that every single action of mine is pleading with you to stay with me tonight. I need you, need you to show me you love me in the most nonphysical and physical ways both, and at the same time I need you to understand all of that without me having to come right out and ask for it. I'm not trying to play mind games. Not at all. I need you, need you in the purest, rawest sense of the word. Yet no matter how many signals I put out they all slip past you. And after you leave, I lie there and cry to myself. Completely alone.

I think there are parts of our
lives that we can't possibly know
the meaning of until we are
months or even years removed.
                                                                    I'm
talking inconsequential moments
that snowball, gathering up value
over time. Then you look back,
and suddenly you are just
                                                                    so
surprised at how many actions
interacted perfectly, the necessary
amalgamation of happenings to
bring about one exact minute. I'm
                                                                    glad
to have had this experience the
second you walked up. At that time
I could never have possibly known I
would be here today. Never guess
                                                                    you
would have such an impact on my
life, knocking an avalanche into my
world, leaving me gasping for breath,
showing me what it means to
                                                                    exist.

I got a text today with news that was
     a long time coming.
But that fact didn't make receiving it
     a single bit easier.
Working in pharmacy is
     high stress
     low thanks,
Gotta develop quite the
     thick skin.
But some patients are different.
They become favorites,
     your smiles to them are genuine,
     you share hugs with them,
     your heart twists at their struggles,
     and you rejoice in their triumphs.
You come to love them.
The problem with that connection is,
     when they die,
     they take a piece of you with them.
You'll no longer
     see their name on your computer screen,
     pour their medication into a vial,
     have them brighten your day.
Working in pharmacy is
     high stress
     low thanks
But the worst part is when a patient is gone
     and you don't get to tell them goodbye
     or how much they meant to you.

You are, quite simply,
my most frequent thought. My lips
miss the taste of you
and my jawline aches for the
presence of your silken kiss.

I'm not that girl,
the one your parents warned you about,
the one that lets secret promises slip between my lips as I make you sigh in ecstasy
only to have you realize every word said while I was between your thighs was a lie, intended only to provoke reaction at the moment.

I'm not that girl,
the one your friends warned you about,
the one that lets a secret wink fly at them as I hold your hand tight,
determined to keep you close
until the moment you aren't enough,
not that you ever know you aren't my one and only.

I'm that girl,
the one you don't think exists,
the one that wants to wake up extra early
for the sole purpose of rolling over
to settle a gentle kiss upon your lips,
then stretch and rise to prepare
a breakfast for you.

I'm that girl,
the one that wants to you surprise desserts just because,
so I'm not the only sweet thing you have
to come home to.

I'm not the girl that will break your heart, lie to you, or cheat on you.
I'm the girl that will stand by you, no matter what, because I want to be the one you lean on in times of need.
I don't want to cause you pain, I want to help fix your struggles.

I'm not that girl, the one all the guys lust after.
I want to be the girl you fall in love with.

I want to run my fingers through your hair, swirl my tongue around the lobe of your ear in just the right way so that I know it will drive you the best kind of crazy.

I wish to wake up early, throw on one of your oversized shirts, and cook you breakfast. Each time I reach for something high up you'll see my secrets that you alone know, and I get to start your day off right, well fed in every meaning of the word.

Let me be the person you come home to, the person you reveal every secret wish and desire to, so that I may be the one to help you make them become real life.

I'd like to be there to gently kiss away all of your teardrops, and talk you through all moments of weakness and self-doubt, reminding how simply extraordinary you are.

I will devote my entire being to bringing you happiness in every aspect of your life.

"I love you,"
I say, speaking those inadequate words out loud
only to watch them fall to the ground, useless at expressing how I truly feel about you.
You say you love me back, but I want to say
"No, you don't fully comprehend my meaning."
It's not just love.

It's wriggling up against you to close nonexistent space, forever trying to get closer, wanting to prolong moments into eternity, because being enveloped within your arms makes me feel safer than I ever thought possible.

It's reading a book about losing one's forever love in a car accident and consequently nagging you to start wearing your seatbelt and stop using your phone so much. I hate feeling like the nagging girlfriend, but god, I don't know how I'd go on without you, and no horror novel has ever scared me so much as that book did.

"I love you,"
I say, feeling the letters crumble under the weight I place upon them.

I went all day without caffeine.
Nothing, not a sip.
Neither coffee nor soda.
At almost five in the afternoon
I caved.
Wrapping my hands around the cup,
feeling the warmth deep through,
I inhaled deeply,
took the aroma in,
felt it infuse itself into my being,
and I swear
in that first sip,
I found religion again.

I don't know much of anything about life or love or the grand "meaning of it all," but this I know: I hate the constraints society places upon us, ropes gathered up to knot relationships, tie them up and place them all in nice neat little packages with a cute presentable bow on top. We're supposedly in the "honeymoon phase" right now and we joke about how we'll know when it's done, when the real stuff has begun. But sir, the way I've spread my scars open, reopened all those old wounds for you to discover, evaluate, and assess, I refuse to believe none of this is the "real" stuff. Sure, maybe one day we'll have an actual, honest-to-goodness argument where our mouths become cannons for the shots we volley back and forth. But I can't believe, stubbornly refuse to even consider there will be a day I'll look into those emerald eyes of yours and not fall utterly in love all over again. I can't imagine a morning of waking up and not being grateful to have you next to me. Maybe love isn't constant perfection, and there's no way that every single day will be a dreamland fantasy, but maybe, just maybe when you've found a forever kind of love there isn't a "honeymoon period" at all. Maybe it just is, and that's enough.

Pure anticipation
   at the moment I
      can rush into your
         open, waiting arms
            and brush my lips
               against the smooth
                  softness of yours
                     is what propels me
                        through the dizzying
                           dullness of each day.

Sometimes the words you say
make me look down and blush,
delve into my own headspace,
wondering what brings such
wondrous sounds pouring forth
from your lips.
And these things you say,
they aren't obscene in any way,
but oh sir, do they twist me up inside
and steal my breaths straight
out of my lungs.

Most of the time you say
silly, fun, loveable things
in a sing-song voice
meant to convey whimsy.
But sometimes,
when we're just lying there
under the covers
or riding along in your car,
you get more serious.
You'll speak words that carry
heavier meanings,
and your voice deepens
so that I know I'm hearing
things meant only for me.
In those moments,
****, I can't break my gaze
away from your eyes.
You capture my full attention
with that special tone,
your own secret
communication straight
through to my heart.

'
                      I asked
you
                       to make love to me last night,
                      desperate for meaning
                      and searching for more
                      than just another ****.
                      You turned me down
                      and my mood instantly
crumpled
                      though I tried not
                      to let you see.
                      I swallowed the pain,
                      buried it down deep
                      until I could turn my back to you.
                      And though we fell asleep
                      as we always do,
                      you with your arms wrapped around
me,
                      with my face turned away
                      you couldn't see
                      the line of tears dancing their way
                      down my cheeks,
utterly
                      destroyed by being turned away by you.

You
                    look at me and I sigh,
                    my world filled with a
                    pure haze and fully
complete
                    now that I know the
                    power of your smile.
                    You have brought life to
me.
                    A life I never dreamed of,
                    but now is real, too real.
                    That is the power of
                                                              ­             you-
                    the ability to bring about
                    dreams so big my stomach
                    flutters in fear. I get a
                                                               ­            scare
                    from your optimism, and
                    every bit of positivity you so
                    painstakingly draw out of
                                                              ­             me.

I want to bolt,
                run away,
escape while I can,
before I'm in
              too
                 deep.
                                                                                   One glance from you
                                                                                  and I know-
                                                                                                 I fell,
                                                                                                    too deep,
                                                                                                            long ago.
                                                                                    I couldn't run if I wanted.
It's too much!
                 Too fast!
        Irrational!
my brain cries out.
                                                                      My heart has no room for reason.
                                                                                  It reacts to you,
                                                                                                and you alone.
All senses beg with me
     step back,
              reassess,
         calm down
                       breathe...
                                                                                          But how can I breathe
                                                                                     when you are constantly
                                                                                     taking my breath away?

He had me in the way he brushed
     his bangs from his view
And the way he made me see the world
     wholly anew.

He had me in the way he looked down
     at me and smiled shyly
So the world just melted away and my heart
     skipped away, flying.

He had me in the way his sense of humor
     was biting, sarcastic, and dark
Matching my own as we discovered
     our combined gift for snark.

He had me in the way his fingers moved
     gently over the guitar strings
And the way his voice deepened when
     he said certain special things.

He had me in the way he showed care
     in even the simplest gestures
Always going above and beyond with
     each step, every measure.

He had me in the way his laugh
     made my soul seem to dance
And how he could bring my world to a halt
     with even the quickest glance.

He had me,
     He had me,
          He had me at hello.

He discovered her in a world of grays and blacks.
She put forth the image of smiles and pinks, but held back
secrets, kept in the shadows,
which revealed an artist
trained in writing with silver.
And though she tried her hardest to create purples or the yellows of happiness
red was her medium
until he discovered her,
and ripped her tedium apart
with his sea of green.
He peeled back her layers:
     The false pinks used to fool the world
     Bright oranges, tools for when the pinks began to crack
     The black, forming an endless pool she was slowly drowning in
Until he found the blue
     Blue as the sky in which he made her feel like she was flying
     Blue from the effort of actually trying for once
     Blue as the sea where her soul now seemed to float
He peeled back her layers and showed her just how colorful
the world could be.

"I want to go home,"
                                                                   she thinks
                                                                   while lying in her bed.
She moves through life,
                                                                   a marionette,
never actually living
anywhere outside her head.
Her mind is fully consumed
by dreams of a true home
          this
              mythological
                               place
which she's heard of
but has yet to know.
A quarter century of life
             crawls by
          before she notices.
The search for her home
         falls
               by
                  the
                    wayside,
                                                                   pushed aside.
In its place, the struggle for
mere survival.
But every night,
lying alone in her bed
as she sleepily sighs
it crosses her mind,
                                                                   "I want to go home."
Where is this "home" place
                                                                   she wonders?
Houses are not homes,
she knows this too **** well.
A thunderstorm gathers
within her soul
                                                                   until
finally, she crashes.
                                                                   "I can't take this hell."
A symbolic breakaway and
          a
           home
                    is
                     found
           suddenly,
                  quickly,
without so much as a warning sound.
It is not realized within any dwelling,
but a much simpler place:
            the fit beneath a chin,
            arms she's encircled within.
                                                                   "Home."
It takes on a higher meaning,
a more profound definition.
And there is simply
               no way, no way
she could have known,
had any premonition of the
                                                                   home
that would so easily grow
between their two souls
and make her, for once,
                                                                   at last,
                                                                   feel whole.
            "Sir, I feel at home with you,"
                        she sighs.
            "You are," he replies.
And she knows
                                                                   it's true.

Come to me, sir.
Undress and bare yourself,
a secret only I can know,
so that I may worship the
very essence of you.

Come to me, sir.
Lie here beside me and
let my fingers wind a
path down your body, testing
the clarity of my memory.

Come to me, sir.
So that my kisses may
rain down an electrical storm,
catching wildfire to every
surface of your skin.

Come to me, sir.
Come close to me, so that I
may be consumed whole
by the beauty of your soul.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" you inquire.
I shrug and shake my head, trying to make the question slip-slide its way past me.
"Something. I can tell," you **** on.
I don't exactly know how to explain the hodgepodge of thoughts bustling around up there.

How all of the mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes inexplicably manage to assemble themselves into a picture, but it always comes out distorted.

How my mind is eternal dusk, that magical moment where anything is possible and the night is full of promise. But remember, that's also when the monsters come out to play.

How I have this uncanny ability to skew every word, look, or memory until every one of them is so tainted I will burn us alive while you wonder what the hell is going on.  I'm good at sabotage, you see.

You don't want to know what's going on in this head of mine.  You can try to connect the dots, but none of them are numbered, and you'll lose yourself attempting to understand me.

There's no way you could have possibly known
when you called while I was driving home,
but the whole day my thoughts had been
utterly preoccupied with plans for the moment when
I arrived and would go into my reclusive
mode. I had thought too much about those elusive
non-feelings, and how I could quickly achieve
them. And on the ride home, I couldn't believe
it when I found something that had slipped
my mind-a pocket knife. Now equipped,
a renewed sense of purpose fueled
my drive. Then you called and my thoughts cooled
considerably, instantly. But you knew,
like you somehow always manage to do,
that I wasn't by any means okay,
no matter what I attempted to say
to convince you otherwise. So I drove
and you crawled in my head and wove
a net for me to fall into. And you stayed
on the phone with me until the call of the blade
was drowned out by our laughter sounds.
You managed to, yet again, turn me around,
and I don't know if you realize just how much
of an impact you can have, how such
insignificant words can change the course of a life.
So I'd like to thank you for helping me beat the knife,
not just today, but every single day.

You know, sometimes it really ****** me off how completely infatuated with you I am. I try so **** hard to be the quintessentially cool, calm, and collected one.

Act like I don't immediately perk up and look around every single time I think I hear you walking my way. Like I don't check my phone regularly just in case I received some communication from you and missed it by chance. As if I don't await the moment my eyes get to settle upon your face, I get to wrap my arms around you, and press my lips to yours. Like hearing your voice isn't what starts my world spinning again when it's all stopped and also slows it down when I'm racing too fast and facing an imminent crash.

But sometimes, every so often, I wish I could back up, pull away, distance myself even just the tiniest bit. That way when the casualest insult unfurls itself from your tongue, crawls between your teeth, and crosses those perfect lips of yours, I don't feel like the wind coming off your words knocks me over with such ferocity.

"Have you had any firsts with me at all?" I ask, breath catching and a sadness coming over me as I realize there's not one thing unique about me.

The silence after my question spreads out and latches onto my heart, concreting the idea that I'm nothing special after all.

You flounder, trying to come up with something, anything, but you have not one occasion to offer me.

You possess so very many of my firsts, and I felt there was something important in the act of giving them to you.

But my sweetest memories are quickly tainted by the realization that many others before me gifted you with the same, their own firsts.

And I can't help but feel *****, used, and alone. For a while there, I really thought I was special.

What a joke.

Tick, tock
We count the seconds, minutes,
          hours, days,
                    years, decades
          of our lives.
Why?
Time is a man-made construct.
We're taught to define our lives by it,
          confine our very selves by it
          from the time of our birth,
          counting down until our death.
One, two, three, four.
Stop the counting.
Do what you have to, but then...
As far as I'm concerned
time should not be a rule,
          but merely a suggestion.

I dismantle you little by little,
pick you apart piece by piece
as I edge you ever closer to the precipice.
Your curiosity is titillated
by the tantalizing nothings
I whisper to draw you near,
promises I never intend to keep.
I tease as we creep, and you have no clue
as to the depths of my nefarious intent
until the moment I lay my hands
on your chest
          and push.
Your hands catch, grasp tightly.
So I lean forward and gift you
with one last kiss
before I stare into your eyes
as I peel them from the surface.
Laughter pours forth
as I witness your fall
from high above.
I turn and walk away,
my deceit complete.

I'm the destroyer of your dreams.
I will sabotage us until
     there is nothing left to cling to.
And I will stand over
     our ashy remains,
Unable to contain my remorse,
     even though I walk through
     the pile left there
and leave bare footprints
     in my wake
     made from the soot of us.

"Write a poem," he says,
but what if there's no use
because all the best parts of me
are already used up
and I'm just a crinkled piece of paper
left to blow away with the wind.
I'm empty, nothing left
to inscribe on my pages,
no story remaining to tell,
and so I wait for a strong gust
to come and take me away,
anywhere, just away from here,
because I can't take this place anymore.
"Write a poem," he tells me,
but what if I can't
because my voice has been
taken away from me, and
I don't see a way to transcribe
what doesn't exist. It just isn't
possible, is it? So I'll sit here
and cry this ink onto my pages,
but to be completely honest,
I'm no longer attempting to create
a coherent story because I'm just
a used up, wrinkled slip of paper,
being thrown about without concern.
"Write a poem," he says,
but my words are all used up.

You call me your princess,
     but I'm not worthy of a title
     filled with such nobility.
I'm far from regal, you see,
     and I wish you wouldn't give
     me so much to live up to.
For I'm destined only to disappoint
     when you hold hopes so high.
I'm nothing more than a child
     playing dress-up
     in her grandmother's old clothes,
     pretending to be royalty.
What you think you see,
     is nothing more
     than make-believe

Your blithesome nature
overwhelms my aching soul.
If I am honest
I must tell you that you are
simply extraordinary.

My bones have become filled
     to the brim with lead
until each step I take
     is so labored
     I can barely make another.
I am exhausted
     to my very core
And I'm expending
     every ounce of my energy
     simply attempting
     to hold my eyelids up.
I can't anymore, I'm sorry.
I just can't, I'm too tired,
I'm going to sleep now,
that deep, restful sleep
     from which one doesn't awake.

In, out
Just breathe
All I can this is
how much I want to leave.
I don't know how I'll make it
through all of today.
God, there's just no way.
In, out
Just breathe
This day is just
so very, very long
and everything I touch
seems to go so wrong.
In, out
Just breathe
I'm just trying to focus
on each individual breath
but every one is just
too substantial to handle.
In, out
I can't breathe.

I'm not sure if you realize
just how many of my smiles
are a direct result of you.
In fact, most mornings
you're the sole reason
I bother removing myself
from the safe confines of my bed.